So I’m at my friend’s book launch eating a second piece of honey cake, listening to a man read a bookish poem called Library. My people, I think, sipping black coffee. I’ve had a seriously devastating week and swimming in someone else’s head is a physical relief.

He reads from a napkin covered in ink and I smile, chewing. Because it’s like that sometimes. Inspiration comes and you grab the nearest thing. Because it needs to come out. And I acknowledge how much courage it takes to stand up and share. And how long it’s been since I’ve shared. And why.

I pop a fat, dark grape in my mouth. Contemplate despair. Swallow more coffee. And clap when he’s done, sitting up straighter because it’s my friend’s turn to shine. And she does.

Her book, Honey in the Vein, is about Mary of Egypt, a 4th century prostitute come saint. I’m neither religious nor Catholic, so my saintly knowledge is limited. But E.D.’s poetry is visceral and I feel her. Mary, I mean. And fall into a dusty world of parchment and candlelight. Of rough fabric and hungry men. I listen. Suck honey off my fingers, close my eyes, and

here’s another room.

Warm. Modern. A man runs a wanting hand along the books. Sees the one he wants. Slides a finger down a spine. Oh god, he-

Wait.

Words come hard. Fast. Sensuous. Settling on me like little provocations. Each syllable a breath. A finger across my neck. And he

Wait.

Is this a poem?

I opened my eyes. Recognizing.

NOW? I mentally ask the Muse, surprised at the intrusion. But also, where have you been? I really want to ask, but don’t. Her company is too precious. Too fleeting. And

Yes, now, she purrs. Reminding she’ll come whenever she wants and I best be grateful. But it’s coming too fast. I have no paper. Just a plateful of crumbs, naughty feelings, and a bunch of words needing urgent . . . attention.

My eyes lowered to dangerous almonds, fingers aching for my pen.

I couldn’t drive home fast enough.

I tore upstairs. Grabbed my notebook. Opened to a blank page. About fucking time, it grumbled, bitter with negligence. Don’t you start, too. I wound my hair in a bun, clicked lead from my pencil, pulled my bra through my sleeve and dropped it to the floor. The last thing I wrote for public consumption was in January 2022, before life drove me to my knees in the least pleasurable way.

I scritched until the tip broke.

***********

For No One

Something about my pale cover 

draws you

the one you shouldn’t read.

Running your finger

 the length of my spine

Needing to know what’s 

inside

You pull me from my place, 

hidden

my weight a comfort

 in your tired palms

And sigh my name

when we’re alone

Slide me open 

with a finger 

my lines and folds 

beneath you

o p e n

And sink into my words

delicate pages

syllables on your tongue

their cadence

  and  spaces 

 pictures firm of

you

 inside 

a room with no sound

holding me close

savoring that part 

again 

and again

Just one more time

because you like the sound

My careful sentences 

soft in your mouth

hard punctuation.

no participle dangling

fingers busy

turning pages slow.

bending

folding

holding

your place.

returning me

to no one.

Your stolen copy.

************

I stared at my words.

Slight departure from ghosts and Beatles. But whatever.